


So, Tell Me Pretty Lies, Tell Them to My Face

by Anonymous



Category: Forever (TV 2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Flashbacks, Gen, Henry-centric, Historical Figures, Historical References, Murder Mystery, References to Illness, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28977435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A mystery disease is running rampant in New York City, and it's up to Henry Morgan to figure out the origin, leading him to a similar case he worked nearly a century before.
Relationships: Henry Morgan & James Carter, Jo Martinez & Henry Morgan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	So, Tell Me Pretty Lies, Tell Them to My Face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArgylePirateWD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/gifts).



> I very much remembered the show and wanted to play around with some of the historical events/people that Henry could have ran into. Some of the details I've tinkered with, but for the most part anything historical (and statistical!) has been researched and is accurate concurrent to 2014, the timeline that Forever takes place in.

_ _ New York City, 2014 _ _

New York City was a place that Henry Morgan loved, but once, it was a place of constant chaos and evolving ideas, a place where he finally felt safe.

It wasn’t always that way. Things changed, time passed, and the world was forever moving forward while he was still stuck, over two-hundred years old and still finding new knowledge. Which is how the detective had found him that morning, pouring over numerous files that were severely yellowed with age, finally finding what he was looking for with a slight grunt of triumph.

Earlier in the day, a body had been brought to his attention, a disease that was present in only a few people but seemed to be cropping up at an exponential rate--it was at least the fourth body that week with similar precursory symptoms. Henry and Lucas had both examined the bodies, noting the odd similarities, and it had triggered a memory that Henry wasn’t so fond of--a remembrance of another disease that had spread.

“It’s impossible.” Henry breathed out to Jo, running a hand through his short hair. “But not out of the expected. I believe what you’re dealing with is a modern-day Typhoid Mary.”

She blinked at him, crossing her arms, lost in her thoughts. “Typhoid Mary…”

“An asymptomatic carrier. Although in this case, I think that they’ve been purposely infected, and they have no clue they’re spreading it.” He sighed, tossing the yellowed papers on the desk. “Mary Mallon denied it up until the end, but her spread of the disease was also unintentional, to a point. She didn’t have a fondness for washing her hands before cooking. Hygiene was not well practiced at the time.”

Henry watched a shiver go through the detective’s body involuntarily, thinking of how bad the past must have been, and he grabbed his coat. “But first things first, we need to find out the common denominator between our victims, and then we’ll find our patient zero. But we need to do it fast.”

Jo thumbed towards the door, already dragging the keys to her office desk from her pocket. “Let’s go, then, Doctor Morgan. I’ve got a map of the city and we’ve got witness testaments from where these people were when they died.” Her tone confused him, a near glee at the proximity of working with him--even if her baser instincts warned her away from him, Jo Martinez was elated by his presence.

Her desk was crammed with personal effects, and she pulled a map from one of the drawers, nodding towards a conference room that was blessedly empty for the time being. “Let’s get started, then.” Henry could only admire her fiery personality, bringing a few thumbtacks along as they started mapping out their victims, and condensing the witness testimonies to lead them back to a patient zero.

Henry looked up at the map once they’d placed markers for all the victims, leaning back against the desk as his fingers smoothed the linen of his trousers. What were they missing? None of the victims were of similar age, blood type, or anything that would possibly link them together other than the mystery illness. The map drew his eye around the city, to places where he’d been before, and places that no longer existed on the current structure.

And down below, in the corner of the map, he noted the island there that showed off the view of the city from the harbor, an island which had been abandoned for decades following the outbreak of tuberculosis in the city’s age of renaissance. For a moment, he lost himself to time, to a memory that recalled a similar situation with a man who no longer existed.

\---

_ _ New York City, 1900 _ _

The city was full and prosperous, constantly changing. Henry loved the hustle and bustle, the way that every street corner was filled with information peddled by the youth. He could do without the heavy coal and wood smoke that filled the air, but for every moment the city moved, he moved with it. It was a place where he truly felt like he belonged. Hiding among the numerous faces, dodging in and out of the city census counts easily; Henry felt as though he could stay in New York forever.

Time was ever on the move, something that Henry felt defined his life as he picked up his morning pastries from the baker in Little Italy, listening to the nonnas fuss over their grandchildren while they made that night’s pasta. Perhaps he’d stop by later on, but he’d taken a shine to the Chinese dishes that had popped up in lieu of the new regulations. Certainly, he’d heard rumors, but a few rumors wouldn’t dissuade him from the delicious lo mein from the Cantonese woman who lived on the corner--as well as the dumplings she would hold out to him, apparently scolding him for not eating enough.

At least the city was set up better than London; one could walk down the sidewalks and see actual structure, rather than a jumbled mess of buildings crammed onto a single walkway. He could pass by every street corner and know exactly where he was, and then some. Henry could almost always walk past a street without looking at the sidewalk, too busy getting lost in the sights to stay seeing straightforward. It was at this exact moment, however, that he bumped into another man, nearly sending them tumbling to the ground among dozens of others trying to make it to the trolley that would take them to the harbor.

“My apologies, I should have been watching where I was going.” Henry apologized, pulling the other man up with his free hand to dust the soot from his jacket. Pausing, Henry let his eyes rove over the other man, noting the curly hair and brown eyes that reminded him of Nora. A breath lodged into his throat, and Henry shook his head. “A little lost in daydreaming, that’s all. Might I offer you a pastry, sir, since I committed you a disservice?”

A grin plastered the other man’s face, his grip firm in Henry’s hand as he stood and collected his fallen hat. “No need to worry. Sometimes we all need to get lost in the fantastic.” At Henry’s offer, though, he frowned. “I’m afraid that I will have to pass; I’m running late on my way to the Department of Health and Sanitation. Thank you, though, Mister…?”

“Henry Morgan, at your service.” A brief grin flashed over Henry’s features, and he nodded towards the ferry. “Doctor Henry Morgan.”

Realization hit as the young man’s eyes widened, and he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “My apologies, Doctor. It seems my first day as your lab assistant has left me with a questionable first impression.”

Henry waved his free hand in the air, dispelling the thought. “Well, then, assistant, let us get going. The ferry only waits so long before heading off to the island, and we must be off.” He handed the youth a pastry from his paper parcel, and began to walk towards the docks, hearing the nervous shuffling of footsteps behind him as his new assistant caught up to him.

“I never properly introduced myself. My name is James Carter.” There was barely any time for a handshake as James stuffed the pastry into his mouth, crumbs flying across his suit unpleasantly, but Henry enjoyed it immensely; to be young at such a time as this was indescribable, and he wasn’t about to spoil it for someone who only had a single life to live. Henry only prayed that James never found out his secret, or the lengths that he took to keep it. 

\---

Hours upon hours of work laid before them the minute they made it to the Department of Health and Sanitation, with bodies turning up and numerous diseases on the rise--particularly tuberculosis. Something new was on the horizon though, a sickness that had already taken a single family to the grave within a month, and several more coming in with similar symptoms. Henry had noted it, placing the numerous pages of reports into a file, and he paused.

“James. What do you think of this?” Henry held his hand out towards a map of the city, noting the locations of the families that had reported the high fevers. More had already caught the fever, although it could be a spread of tuberculosis; it was far too early to tell if there was something else at play. If so, then the events could be catastrophic.

His new assistant peered over, adjusting the map to provide an accurate read, and he hummed. “Odd. It looks like similar symptoms are popping up, but it’s sporadic, and our patients are limited to households--it doesn’t spread any further than those inside a singular home before disappearing off to another. And nothing is related between them, it seems.”

“I have to agree, but something is amiss. None of these families live anywhere near one another, and they don’t run in the same social circles. So how would a disease like this spread, if it is in fact a disease?” Henry adjusted the small glasses he wore as a disguise, watching for a reaction. 

“We’re missing a connection. Something out of the limelight, someone in the families that could spread it.” But just as James was about to elaborate, a knock came to the door, signaling the end of their free time. A gurney rolled in, the sheet covering it dingy in the lamplight--though the rest of the building was built with electricity in mind, Henry refused to have it in his office. Too much of a good thing, and he cared little for the constant humming. Lamplight was familiar, warm, a reminder of days he longed for in his dreams.

But even that seemed to be something out of a fantasy, as he washed his hands in the nearby porcelain sink. Henry was a man who was timeless, and eventually this, too, would pass if he didn’t find a way to finalize his own death. No time like the present, he supposed, unrolling the leather case full of tools he’d need to examine the body. Sharp knives gleamed in the light, and he nodded towards James.

“I hope you’ve got a strong stomach, James.”

\---

It turned out that James, in fact, did not have a strong stomach, at least for the first few bodies. Seeing one up close and personal was far different than a dissertation in a medical classroom--it was something that Henry hoped would improve over time, and allow students to become more ‘hands on’ with their subject material. Their aprons smeared with blood, Henry washed his hands once more, wiping them clean on a towel, gesturing for James to do the same.

Thankfully, it went without question; Henry realized that it was a strange habit but one that he found necessary after years of dying painfully from illnesses related to lack of hygiene.

A glass of water was held out to James, and the two sat outside of the office, taking a deep breath amongst themselves. Henry let his mind wander, thinking of their earlier excursion with the map, and he looked over at the glass of water in James’s hand. The thought hit him like a stone wall--how would the mystery disease move through the city, but only in selected spots? Contaminated water sources, or a contaminated person.

“You were going to elaborate earlier, before we had so much work dropped on us?” He offered to the younger man, a pensive stare on his face as he watched droplets of condensation roll down the glass.

“Ah, right. I was going to suggest a water source, but that didn’t seem right. If it were a water source, then we'd be having more people with more symptoms. But it’s only limited to those few families. Which means it’s either something that’s in their family history that hasn’t been disclosed, or there’s another connection.” James took another sip of water, slowly downing the purified water that Henry insisted upon.

With a nod, Henry pointed to their paperwork, piles of it already mounting on two oaken desks. “Well, we’ll certainly find out which one it is, won’t we? Although I think our mystery has less to do with family histories so much as the unknown factor.”

Finishing off the glass, James placed it in the tin collection box for housekeeping, rolling his sleeves up as he moved towards the desk. “There’s no time like the present, then, Doctor Morgan.” A grin spread across his face, and for a moment Henry’s heart ached, thinking of how James reminded him of the desperate notion of having a son, or even a grandchild that would have resembled the young man before him. Would they have studied medicine, like him? Or would they have pursued other means?

“Just Henry, James. Doctor Morgan makes me sound positively ancient.” A smile tugged at Henry’s lips, wishing that the young man could know his secret. Perhaps it would be nice to share it with someone...but Nora had made him out to be a monster. He couldn’t risk it again, knowing all too well that while medicine had advanced, it was still torturing people. He’d escaped that life, and didn’t wish to relive it; instead, Henry found solace in burying himself in the numerous papers that crossed his desk and learning about death in every iteration.

\---

_ _ New York City, 2014 _ _

Henry followed Jo silently, thinking of the similarities they’d found. Three of the victims had been seen in the same area, and at least two of them had visited the same grocery store in the Bronx within the past two week period. There still wasn’t a timeline for how fast the disease killed, but if he desperately wanted to figure it out, Henry would douse himself with it. Every one of the bodies in the morgue with the mystery disease had been moved to a cold storage facility that would prevent any further spread of the disease.

If he really thought about it, a two-week span for an outbreak was incredibly fast, but not unprecedented. Times had changed, and people had gotten far more intelligent, always thinking in the span of hours rather than days ahead. New York was the most bustling of cities he’d been in, besides Tokyo, and Henry wondered if he’d move back there in a decade or so, when people started to see that he didn’t age. It was something he didn’t linger on--Abraham would more than likely be gone by that point, a thought that crushed Henry’s heart. He would live on, perhaps, if he didn’t find a way to die; two hundred years’ worth of medical knowledge and dedication to the macabre had made Henry a bit of a cynic when it came to death and what laid afterward.

Detective Martinez was already knocking on an obscure door in the neighborhood, one of hundreds that existed, but something that Henry found odd--they weren’t at an apartment building, which most of the denizens of New York City inhabited. This was a house--old money, old investments. And a high mortgage, something he was glad not to have paid in quite some time. Immediately his eye drew towards the small back yard, frowning slightly. The color of the lawn was off, something that made his brow furrow. If someone could afford to live here, then the lawn should have been pristine. Instead, it was anything but.

He grabbed Jo’s coat sleeve, nodding towards the back. “Expensive neighborhood but a bad lawn?” Henry watched her brows shoot up, making the connection he was getting at, and she tilted her head.

“What are you thinking, Morgan? What could lawn care have to do with a disease we know nothing about?” Her eyes flashed at him, attempting to put together pieces that he had already started picking apart, eliminating suspect after suspect.

“If this lawn hasn’t been taken care of in a while, then we could potentially have more victims without knowing it.” Henry noted the placard in the front lawn, stating the company that was supposed to be taking care of it, and he committed the phone number to memory, eyes roaming down the street. “I think we may have found our connection, Detective.”

\---

_ _ New York City, 1901 _ _

“They’ve popped up again.” Henry barely had time to make it into the office before James bombarded him with news. With a frown, Henry passed the man a questioning look, before taking note of the bodies with sheets covering them. There was never a dull moment in health and sanitation, it seemed.

“What has, James?” Henry had already started to wash his hands in the basin, making sure to cover them in suds and scrub vigorously at his skin until it felt nearly raw from the pressure. Cleanliness was close to godliness, and if it kept him from being ill? Henry would take it. Not to mention it provided his alibi whenever he managed to make a list of persons in the department who ‘never got sick’.

James answered near immediately with a board clip filled with papers, meticulous research on one of the bodies laying in their office. “Our mystery illness from last year has returned. There are two families in the hospital uptown that are suffering from the same symptoms as the families last year were.”

Taking the board clip from James, Henry flipped through the pages, scanning the information for extra indicators that it was, indeed, the same disease; if it was, this could signal out a possible outbreak. “How many families?”

“Only two this time. Said that they got sick eating clam chowder that their cook had prepared.”

Henry mused on the thought for a moment--perhaps that had been their missing connection. Improperly cooked seafood could cause a myriad of illnesses, and it would make sense. But seafood was also expensive compared to fowl, beef, or pork, which the previous families had consumed. “It could be the clams, then, if they weren’t cooked properly. It would make sense that the families would get sick...wait a moment. Did you say ‘cook’, James? Not two cooks, but a singular cook?”

“That’s right. One cook.” James looked over at the space where they’d had the map pinned the previous year, wondering if they should pull it out again. “It seems that she was fired by one family and then got picked up by the next family that got ill.” 

Henry narrowed his eyes, the wheels in his head already turning as his hands reached towards the cabinets where all of his paperwork was stored. Perhaps on purpose, he’d kept the reports from last year, the illness entirely too odd for him to ignore; he was glad that he’d retained the information, or they’d be in a world of trouble. “What would you think if I suggested that it was the __cook__ behind all the illnesses?”

James’s eyes widened, and he looked over the paperwork that Henry had produced, noting that the other man had kept the information instead of submitting it for further recordings, but he frowned all the same, thinking. Henry found it fascinating how people collected their thoughts; every person was different and being alive for well over a hundred years at that point gave him a multitude of personas to examine. It was akin to a lightbulb going off--not that he enjoyed the things, but one had to keep up with some of the times, he supposed.

“That’s brilliant, Henry, but we’d have to prove it. Just because she was at these two incidents doesn’t mean she was at the previous ones.”

Crossing his arms, Henry grinned at James. “Never say never, Doctor Carter.” He could see the other man already formulating a plan, absently muttering about having their new sanitation specialist go to check things out. It seemed as if everything was going to fix itself, and they would have an answer for the disease’s origin; well-to-do families had access to better sanitation so it was highly unusual for such an outbreak to occur in the first place. Something--or someone--was in the wrong here.

\---

Several days later, the sanitation specialist returned, and the laundress of one of the families had succumbed to the illness. Henry had broken through the symptoms to determine that the currently ill and recovering were infected with a form of typhoid fever, something he hadn’t seen outside of the trenches and other places that dealt with unsanitary conditions. An involuntary shiver ran through his spine as he remembered his own bout with typhoid fever, the chills and sweats as painful as any death he’d yet to have had...save for maybe the lingering issue with gangrene that had also come from war-time.

That had been a __quite__ painful death and one he was not willing to repeat if given the circumstances.

As for their suspicions, it seemed as if the cook just simply didn’t exist in the first place; her name was false at both homes and she’d simply disappeared after the families had taken ill. Their sanitation specialist had only shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, walking off to leave both Henry and James without any other leads in sight, save for checking the water supplies and sewage drainage around both of the homes.

Nearly a week later, water samples had been dredged up, and despite thorough testing, the contamination was of a safe level, but something nagged at Henry’s stomach, thinking of the solution that he seemed to be missing, the missing piece. Perhaps he’d been too hasty in blaming the cook, if she even existed? She could have been a hallucination from the fevers. Maybe there was more to this than he knew?

Could it be like malaria? A new disease breeding under the guise of typhoid fever? Perplexed, Henry sat at his desk long after the others in the department had gone home, pouring over every ounce of information he had. Surely he’d find a plausible solution, but typhoid fever with a carrier who showed no symptoms seemed more and more the answer.

\---

_ _ New York City, 2014  _ _

“Tell me about your son. Was he working late, seeing anyone new?” Jo Martinez was already asking questions of the third victim’s family, while Henry peered around. The apartment was immaculate, but the lawn care company was the same as before--and there were uprooted flowers in the otherwise normal-looking lawn. A few brown patches were there as well, but nothing that had been to the state of the first home they’d visited. There were only a few reasons that Henry could think of that would leave a place in such a state--someone had something to hide.

Turning, he looked to the detective, then to the victim’s mother, who had joined them in the apartment. She was in the throes of cleaning, progressing towards boxing up all that remained of her son’s life, and Henry sympathized. “Madam, had your son called you before he had taken ill? You did say that he’d called you the previous week, but was there anything amiss about his last phone call?”

She paused, noting the way that Jo looked at Henry, before nodding. “Sam was always such a patient man, even growing up. But that last phone call, he sounded...urgent. As if he knew something was wrong but he couldn’t explain it.” Her fingers ran over a framed photograph, a sad smile filling her features as she stared down at the picture fondly. “He’d started working in one of those new places that has the fancy coffee makers and a big budget...he was always so driven for success.” 

“Any particular brand of coffee? I’m looking for a new brand, myself. They don’t roast the beans the same way anymore.” Henry gave a bit of a smile, and let the woman lead him to the kitchen, where she handed him a bag of coffee that was half-full. 

“He was still drinking on it when...he got sick.” The woman’s words choked in her throat, and Henry nodded, giving her a soothing pat on the hand as he took the coffee from her, his eyes meeting with the detective’s for just a moment. He’d found the connection, or at least one of them; it was the one thing he’d noted in each of the victim’s homes.

Avoiding the detective’s gaze until they reached her car, Henry thought long and hard. Coffee was roasted and boiled; it would kill most bacteria present and even most viruses just from brewing. But between the lawn care and the coffee, he’d made an inference--the two were connected in a way that they hadn’t had the foresight to observe.

“So, mind telling me what that was about? The ‘I’m looking for a new brand of coffee, myself,’ bit.” Jo’s eyes were scrutinizing but her mind was open, and Henry held out the bag of coffee. 

“What’s the one thing that New Yorkers survive on?” A finger crooked towards the label. “Coffee. Everyone in this city drinks coffee, and our victims all have the same brand in their homes.” Tapping the bag, Henry shut the vehicle’s door behind him, and slid the seatbelt across his waist. “We’re looking for someone who interacts specifically with these people, and our carrier is in the lawn care business. There are no such things as coincidences.”

\---

He’d painstakingly set up the map of the city, noting the dates and times of the lawn care company’s visits as well as the victims’ onset of symptoms. Healthy people did not simply drop out of existence, after all, and there were records. What amused Henry the most, though, was Jo’s annoyance at his longhand method, painstakingly detailing everything on a physical map over gathering data on the computer.

“It would be so much faster on a computer, Morgan. You know, they build algorithms for these kinds of things that predict more than...this.” Her hand gestured to the tacked up map, worn through in some spots from frequent foldings. 

“Ah, true, but I find that technology misses the more personal details.” Henry took a pin and tapped it against the hand-written note that he’d attached to the wall. “See, I’ve narrowed it down to our lawn care company’s stops, and then from there we’ll find our carrier simply from their tastes.” He held up the bag of coffee, shaking it slightly. “For a moment, I didn’t know how they’d be infecting other people, but then it hit me--how easy is it to drink from someone else’s mug while they have their backs turned?”

Jo ran a hand over her face. “Are you saying it’s intentional, not accidental? Because that’s a lot of effort to go through just to off a few random citizens.” She had to admit, though, that Henry’s theory made sense, and lined up with the victimology, as well as the other precedents in the case. “So why is our modern day ‘Typhoid Mary’ infecting people with something that kills them?”

“I think once we’ve connected our victims past the coffee connection, we’ll figure that out.” Henry’s thoughts stirred, observing the bag in his hand. It looked like an ordinary bag of coffee, something that had become commonplace as time had moved on and the world no longer had to ration the elusive treat. Nothing particular stood out to him, except perhaps the amount that had been consumed--far more than an average person would have been through in a new bag. “This bag of coffee...it’s new.”

Jo snatched the bag from his hands, peering over the package. “You’re right, it is new...but nobody goes through that much coffee in a couple of days. You’d have to be drinking pots upon pots of it to even dent half this bag.” Henry’s eyes widened.

“What if what we’re looking at is at the coffee company?”

“You mean they have someone infected there, and they’re handing out bags of tainted coffee?” Jo scoffed, grabbing her coat, and Henry dashed after her, tying the scarf around his neck as they moved. 

“No. Coffee is boiled, it’s impossible to tamper with beforehand due to the fact that you boil it before drinking it.” He held open the glass door for Jo, and sidled next to her, making their way to the squad car once again. “But the people at the coffee company could be the source--it fits our profile. But the lawn care company doesn’t fit in...unless they’re the control group. Immune to the disease.”

\---

The scent of roasting coffee beans was nearly noxious, permeating even the thick air outside of the city as Jo drove up to the building, parking in front of the open warehouse. Henry sniffed, wanting to sneeze, but paused. “Detective. I think that you should let me handle this...I’ve been around the infected bodies and tested my blood for immunity.” 

“You’re not a detective, Morgan. You’re the M.E.” Jo’s eyes narrowed at him, her arms crossing. “You can’t just waltz in there and find what we’re looking for.” She opened the car door, and got out of the car, leaving him gaping in the car as she opened the door to the building. Muttering to himself, Henry nearly ran after her, careful to cool his image before he entered the building and the smell of roasting coffee hit him like a truck.

How anyone could possibly find this bearable was beyond him.

Jo was already at the desk, flashing her badge at the poor receptionist slash barista, and Henry noted a few things just from the stance. One, that the receptionist was nervous, but not because of the detective; her nails were bitten down to the beds and the skin was dry, suggesting a habit of washing her hands constantly. The other thing he noticed was her glancing off towards the back, as if trying to warn them away from an unknown force. Either she was being blackmailed into keeping quiet about the real purpose behind the roasters, or they’d just stumbled upon an anxious, overworked receptionist who had the good sense to keep people out of trouble--including herself. 

“Detective.” Henry’s voice was wary as he approached, noting the increased reaction in the receptionist’s breathing. “I believe you said we were going to stop for coffee, not the coffee roasters.” A hint, one that she’d be easy to pick up on if she was paying attention, and Henry turned towards the poor woman behind the counter. “You’ll have to excuse us, it’s been a long day, and when we smelled the beans roasting, we couldn’t resist.”

“O-of course.” This seemed to relax the woman a bit, and she reached across the counter for a cup. “What can I get you, then?”

With a smile, Henry posed a look of pondering, then confusion. “Someone in our department had brought coffee from here, and it had a peculiar symbol on the bag. A vine, strangling a skull?” He hummed it out, milking his expression further. “I don’t recall if that’s the correct one, I’m afraid…”

“Oh, you mean the Rebellion blend! That’s pretty popular as of late. Our last blend sold pretty well too. Any way in particular you take it?” The barista-receptionist’s hands were already flying across the cup, scribbling down everything that Henry asked for. “So cream, no sugar, and a touch of honey. Coming right up!”

Henry and Jo exchanged a look, before the barista-receptionist returned with a steaming cup of coffee, the scent almost exhilarating to Henry’s nose. Taking it from her, he sipped on it, tasting the heady flavor. A bit nutty, and with a hint of sweetness, just like he would have taken whenever he’d first discovered coffee. “Thank you, darling. Now, do you think you could answer a question for me?”

Blinking, the receptionist tilted her head. “Of course. What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if there was something secret about the brew. It’s absolutely delightful, and I have to wonder how you get the flavor so smooth.” If he was smug about it, Jo wasn’t saying a thing, instead letting Henry work his magic on the unsuspecting woman. “If it’s a trade secret, then I’ll leave you be, but I must know. My brother lives overseas and he would love something like this.”

The nervousness almost immediately returned, and the woman shook her head, wiping her hands on the light blue apron. “Not a thing, sir. Our brew has its own recipe, but nothing I know of gets added that’s anything special.”

“Thank you, then. I’ll just have to disappoint him, it seems.” Henry gave her a lopsided grin, and he nodded to the detective. “Shall we get back to work then? I’ll share my coffee with you.”

Jo eyed him suspiciously, and then gave Henry a smile that spoke volumes about how angry she was that he had disrupted her routine. He waited until they were both out of earshot and into the car that he held up the coffee, taking another sip. “She’s lying about something. I’m not sure yet, but our friendly receptionist is hiding a secret.”

With a sigh, Jo made to take the cup of coffee, and Henry refused to give it to her, noting that his mouth felt tacky on the inside. “I think the cream was bad. Best not take a sip, detective; spoiled milk can be hazardous for one’s work routines.”

\---

When they arrived back at the police station, Henry made his way to the basement office that he occupied, pausing as a sensation roiled through his stomach. At first, it was mild, but the longer that he worked, the more that his stomach felt as if he was being burned from the inside out. It was nothing like the fever he’d perceived it to be like, and he looked towards Lucas, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I’m going to head home for the day, Lucas. It seems as though the coffee I’ve had earlier has upset my stomach something dreadful.”

“Do you want me to have Detective Martinez take you home?” Lucas pondered at him, raising a brow at the usually healthy man. “It won’t take but a moment.”

“No, no, that’s all right. I can take the subway, no problem.” No need to worry Abraham; his son already had enough on his plate keeping Henry’s life as normal as possible. Food poisoning--if that’s what he could consider it, with the insurmountable pain forming in his stomach--was nothing to worry over. Henry made his way outside, tying the scarf around his neck as his tongue was thickening in his mouth, a wheeze coming from his lungs as he hurried to a nearby alleyway.

It didn’t take long for the disease to take him over, and the last thing Henry could remember was blacking out over an excruciating amount of pain and blood filling his nose and mouth.

\---

Splashing from the depths of the Hudson River, Henry found his lungs screaming for air, and he hurried towards the nearest bank of land he could find. Soaking wet, and more perplexed than ever, he found himself hiding amongst the bushes and slipping nude through the riverside park he’d been reborn near. Honestly, this was the worst part about living forever, aside from living forever; he always woke up in water, soaked to the bone, as naked as the day he was born. Scooting into the nearby alleyway, he flagged down a member of one of the restaurants, asking to borrow their telephone to call Abraham.

His son looked less enthused than normal when he arrived, although Henry noted that Abraham had a curious look in his eye as he entered the passenger side. “I think I may have figured out how our killer is operating…what’s got you so amused, Abe?”

“Oh, nothing.” Abraham chuckled, pulling back into the busy streets of New York City to drive back to the antique shop. “Detective Martinez stopped by, said you had turned positively green at the M.E.’s office and had come home. She wanted to make sure you were okay--I told her that I’d put you to bed and that you were resting.”

“Thank heavens.” Henry wiped a hand over his face, noting that his fingertips still felt slightly tingly. It was odd, but… “Abraham, I may have just found the solution to our victims’ demise.”

\---

_ _ New York City, 1906 _ _

“Henry, Henry!” James had chased him down on their way to the office, hat nearly spilling from his head as he approached. “You’re not going to believe this, Henry. Soper found our mystery carrier!” 

Henry nearly choked on his steamed bun, pulling James closer. “You’re joking.”

“No, he did! He found her after all of our reports and contact tracing efforts. Odds are she’s going to go into hiding again, though, so he’s organizing a forced quarantine for her.” James brushed the sides of his coat, taking out a handkerchief to cough into. “Damn this weather, it’s murder on the lungs.”

“I have to agree.” Although Henry’s case involved waking up in the Hudson River after a brutal run-in with a pickpocket who hadn’t gained a single thing, other than perhaps loss of dignity. He’d rated it a cool three in his journals, noting the time it took to bleed out and the pain level. It wasn’t the worst of deaths, but still, inconvenient. Henry had been investigating a lead on their mystery carrier, gathering extra information since she disappeared and surfaced at random. But now, they seemed to have caught her. “Do you think that she’ll agree to testing?”

“Probably not, but you know how it goes. They’ll test her anyways.” James seemed to flinch at the thought, another heaving cough coming up from his lungs, sounding both dry and fluid at the same time. He tried to hide the evidence, but Henry noticed the bright red blood staining the handkerchief.

“James, are you sure it’s just the weather? Perhaps you should get tested for the other disease running rampant in our city.” Concern furrowed his brow as Henry stopped in the street, debating on whether to hail a cab to get them to work. “I’ll get us a cab, so your lungs don’t have to suffer more than they have to.”

“Terribly kind of you, although I insist on walking. It’s looking to be a lovely day, and one I wouldn’t miss for the world.” James grinned, and Henry watched as his friend disappeared into the crowd, lost in the sea of faces before him.

\---

James had been right, Henry found, because George Soper was sitting in his office, a worried expression upon his face. He seemed to be rather intrigued by the map in Henry’s office, looking over pinned dates and times that the sanitation office had overlooked in their pursuit of the disease. Noticing Henry’s approach, George turned to him, nodding towards the map.

“You missed all the excitement, Doctor Morgan. Although I daresay that your notes were helpful in catching Miss Mallon...let us hope that she doesn’t threaten the next set of doctors with a carving fork.” Chuckling, he took Henry’s mug from the desk, turning it over in his hand. “It’s strange, isn’t it? To think that something simple as sanitation could change the course of a spread.”

“Not as strange as you’d think. For decades medical research has been developing towards more sanitary routes...you save more lives if you don’t introduce foreign bodies to the patient. Koch proved that much, all within the span of several years. Imagine what we’ll be doing in twenty years, or even a hundred years. The possibilities are endless.” Robert Koch had been doing independent testing to assist with the spread of tuberculosis in previous years, and had been awarded the Nobel Prize in the previous year; Henry had kindly slipped him a few anonymous letters detailing his own findings in order to progress his research further. What use was medical knowledge of death if it did not benefit the living in some way?

“I digress, Doctor Morgan. Without your assistance, and Doctor Carter’s meticulous notes, we would have been hunting Miss Mallon for a long time.” Soper turned towards the door, setting the mug back down on the desk, and paused just at the frame. “Maybe she’ll be able to tell us some things about typhoid, once we get her tests run and get appropriate samples.”

\---

_ _ New York City, 2014  _ _

Henry had backtracked to the spot where he’d met a perilous end, taking the spilled coffee cup that was on the ground and bagging it. Immediately, he’d gone back to the antiques store, taking the cup with him. Certainly, he could pull a few strings in the lab, and have the contents analyzed; all it took was a little white lie about figuring out if he was allergic to something in the brew, or if it really had been spoiled milk. In less than an hour he had slides on hand, and a full spectroanalysis on the contents of his cup.

Lucas found him staring into a microscope, eyeing the contents of a slide. “Whatcha got there, Doc? Anything interesting?”

“Something tainted my coffee this morning...I wanted to see if it had any resemblance to anything I know of. The pain was excruciating.” Henry adjusted a dial, looking over the samples with a careful eye. He’d also swabbed a bit of his saliva to examine, wondering if it would provide the answer he’d been searching for. And there, just under the unassuming glass, was just what Henry had suspected: a brand new disease, present in the boiled coffee as well as the saliva sample. The ground coffee sample, however, showed a different story--capsules hidden in the coffee, small enough to be undetected by the naked eye. “Interesting...call Detective Martinez, Lucas. She needs to see this.”

A short phone call and several minutes later, Jo Martinez was standing in front of Henry, her eyebrow cocked at him. “This better be good, Morgan. There’s only so many times a day I like coming to the morgue.”

“I promise it’ll be worth your while, detective. Now, come look at the microscope slides for a moment, and tell me what you see.” He moved back so she could have a look into the eyepiece, and Lucas chose that moment to grin and open his mouth.

“So, Doc, how does it feel? You’ve discovered something new, like a modern day Koch or something.” Henry grimaced at the name, shaking his head at the mention of Robert Koch. “Maybe now we could go out and have a drink to celebrate, y’know, and I can finally figure something out about you.”

“As much as I’d enjoy that, there are other matters at hand, Lucas. Namely someone tampering with food in a way I’ve never seen before.” Henry carefully blew his coworker off, determined not to get any closer to Lucas than necessary. It was better than no one found out his secret, other than Abe, and that was conditional as well. “Our killer is using a manufactured disease. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Jo leaned up from her position at the microscope, giving both Lucas and Henry a sidelong glance that sent a rush through Henry’s soul. “How does this tie in to the lawn care company, or our previous victims, though? Coffee seems to be a rather strange way to spread a disease, and as you mentioned before, impractical.”

“Ah, but here’s where it gets interesting. I did some further tests on the coffee and looked into our victim profiles...they’re not random at all. Someone is targeting people who work in the coffee industry, particularly buyers and sellers. Our latest victim,” Henry tapped the front of the shelf, “He was a stockbroker for several companies. Another victim is part of a group that oversees the FDA regulations put into place when a new company starts up. And yet another is part of the city council that deals with new businesses.”

The other connection, however, had to do with what had taken place after he’d ingested the coffee and died. “It occured to me to look at the lawn care companies after the unfortunate incident at the coffee roasters, and after talking with some of the fellows in our particular company that keeps cropping up everywhere…”

“You made a connection. Although I can’t say I agree with your methods here, Morgan.” Jo shifted, the emotion on her face bordering amusement. “So what did you find out? Because I can already tell you that someone in the lawn company is related to our coffee receptionist.”

Henry never ceased to be amazed at her resourcefulness, and he shook his head. “Not just that, detective. Our barista in question is a carrier of the original disease. Compared to the blood types of the victims we’ve encountered, hers is a similar type. Nearly exact, to be precise, save for the disease itself. Our victims all have the engineered disease.”

He’d spent hours after picking up his coffee cup making his way back to the roasters and talking with the barista, making sure she was comfortable. Carefully, he’d lured her into having a sit down with him and taking a short break from behind the counter, getting her to have a cup of tea. With enough careful distraction, Henry had spilt a bit of tea on her and then carefully bagged her cup for his samples, instructing everyone in the lab to be careful of the potential contaminant when they swabbed it for him.

“See, our barista’s disease isn’t a common one, at least here; less than one percent of people worldwide have it. Her particular strain, however, seems to be a personal one. She also washes her hands and wears proper gear when she prepares the coffee, which means she’s not our spreader. She is, however, our ‘Typhoid Mary’, so to speak; the engineered disease is almost identical to her own.”

“What is the disease, Morgan? What could this woman possibly have that’s so rare here?” Jo tapped her foot impatiently, and Henry pulled up a chart. 

“Cholera. Whoever is close to this woman knows she has it, and a rather special brand of it as well; she’s been vaccinated for the bacterial spread and has had studies done but she still has the bacteria in her body. If our barista were to ever stop washing her hands and disavow proper hygiene, then we’d certainly be in trouble--this particular strain is far more potent.” Their conversation had steered towards finding out a little more about her, and Henry had let slip that he was a doctor, so he could understand her predicament; he lived with a lifelong disease too, just perhaps a little different than hers. Playing it off of the barista’s insecure nature and reassuring her it was fine had proved to be the same as opening a can of worms, and Henry knew far more about her than anyone really should after just one conversation. 

“Cholera is spread from improper sanitation. How the heck do you manufacture something like that?” Lucas chimed in, though Henry gave a nod towards the coffee. “And why? It’s easy enough to detect and can be treated by modern medicine.”

“A protective outer shell. It helps withstand the heat of the boiling process, and once in the stomach dissolves, leaving our victim in rather severe agony.” Henry reached for his mug, sipping the hot tea he’d prepared, and gave a nod to the business card pinned to the board. “Our unfortunate barista has a particularly resistant strain...and with her tendency to let some of her health details slip after a distressing moment, I’d say it has affected the coffee roasting business she runs. Turns out she’s a co-owner of the business, but she likes to be hands-off as far as finances go.” 

“And the lawn company?” Jo shifted, a sign of preparation to go out in the field--Henry noticed she had some impatience when it came to solving such things; her own grief drove her to be a near workaholic, something he was desperate to remedy even if slowly. “How do they fit in?”

“Chemistry. Our killer has been experimenting with saliva samples from our barista, which leads me to believe that they either have a similar condition, or perhaps they’re in love with her and want to fix her issue.” Henry produced a lab report, handing it over. “Crimes of passion, purposely dosing her products with the bacteria so that the city looks into it, and then a solution becomes possible. Although, even if that did happen, the barista would take the blame, and no one would be any wiser.”

Lucas took the lab report, looking over it as he read off the names of the ingredients forming the outer shell. “D-limonene, clove oil, cinnamon oil...these are herbicide ingredients. Organic herbicide, if I remember correctly.” Two pairs of eyes stared at Lucas in disbelief, with Henry raising his brow and Jo dropping her jaw slightly. “What? My mom uses it on her window boxes. Says it’s better for the environment, and it won’t kill the pigeons.”

Exchanging a look with Jo, Henry shook his head slightly, muttering under his breath of how much Lucas reminded him of a previous colleague, and he righted himself, grabbing his coat. “In any case, our lawn care company ties in because they use a particular brand of herbicides to clear the area...any guesses as to what’s in their plant-killer?”

“I have a few guesses.” Jo’s lips turned up, and she waved to Henry. “Come on, Morgan. You’ve got more than that, and you’re going to tell me in the car. We’re getting this guy, __today__.”

“A wise decision, Detective. I’ve already called about their route, and it seems as if today there’s an investor on the company’s list.” They could very well be in time to catch the killer in action, and stop the intended victim from poisoning themselves. Henry’s thoughts started to wander off as he explained everything to Jo, leaving out the more sordid details of his discovery, and his mind drifted to a similar situation he’d had over a century ago.

\---

_ _ New York City, 1906 _ _

“Henry, you’re just going to have to let it go. There’s no fixing this.” James’s lips were drawn into a tight line, drawing the shirt around his frame. “I’m just going to live my life out exactly as I want to, and enjoy living it with what time I have left.”

Distraught, Henry twisted his hands together, and shook his head. “Surely there has to be something we haven’t tried, James. You’re still so young and you have an entire life to live, things to see…” His heart was breaking, and Henry ran a hand over his face. Staring down Death’s door never got any easier, especially when it came to people that he cared for and truly loved, and a fist formed against the doorway. “There has to be something…”

James frowned, and shook his head. “We’ve tried everything, Henry. It’s just time to let it be and enjoy the time we have left. I’ve accomplished so much already, and I met you. I got to work on one of the biggest cases New York has ever seen, and I’ve improved countless lives through our research and our department. Henry, I __have__ lived. And I intend to carry on living until this damn disease stops me.”

A choking noise left Henry’s lips, and James patted his shoulder, insisting on drying his tears with a dab of a clean handkerchief. He was careful not to breathe on Henry, or get too close, and the stare of reassuring brown eyes let Henry sag into relief. “I’ll keep looking, James. There has to be something I can do for you, for as much as you gave me.”

\---

_ _ New York City, 2014 _ _

The squad car pulled up to the worksite that Henry had researched, and Jo looked at him. “You’re sure that this is right, that our guy is here today?” She peered over the steering wheel, looking at the collection of workers spraying the lawns.

“I’m sure that he is. Or that she is, whichever it might be.” Modern times allowed for work to be unisex and Henry was all for it, even though he sometimes found the occupations strange. “Today is the investor’s yard care, and the company was gracious enough to fax the employee list over earlier.” He refused to learn how to do email or deal with a computer, despite Abraham’s insistence, and instead Henry had utilized Lucas as his resident technological wizard. “We only have the ones working today, and our killer will show themselves because their hands will be raw from scrubbing the chemicals off.” 

“I guess gloves don’t exactly cover some things, huh?” Jo retorted, and made to get out of the car, walking to the door of the investor’s apartment and knocking. “Hello, sir?” Henry watched her enter the home, and he slipped around the back, careful to observe from a distance before approaching one of the workers.

“Ah, so sorry to disturb you. I’ve heard some things about your company and I was wondering if I could ask a few questions? My own landscaping is in need of a tender touch.” The scent of citrus was nearly overwhelming, and Henry could see why it would be easy to sneak in tainted batches of coffee; even the heavy scent of boiling coffee beans wouldn’t be able to overpower the scent of citrus. “I don’t suppose you could tell me about what you use? Organic is best, after all...what is that smell?” 

The supervisor who he’d pulled away from his work sat aside the paperwork that he’d been doing, and picked up a mug of coffee, taking a swig of it with a smack of his lips. “Oh, I can get you the pamphlets and all that, since we have to go by city regulations and we have to do an inspection of the grounds before we start--can’t have it running into the waterways, you know.” His attention turned to his cup, and he lifted it up. “This? Coffee from Jack’s girlfriend’s place. Makes a killer cuppa. I can see if he’ll give you the details, just a moment.”

A sharp whistle sounded from the supervisor, along with ‘Jack!’, and a rather thickly built man rounded the corner, red skin peering from under his work gloves as he peeled away the mask he was wearing. “Yeah, boss? You called?”

“Yeah, this here townie wants to know about your girlfriend’s coffee.” The supervisor thumbed at Henry, and went back to his paperwork, reaching for a pamphlet that he pushed into Henry’s hands. “Here, before I get back to it. Take a look and see if it works for you, then give HQ a call.” He turned away, and left Henry alone with the man he’d called Jack.

“I couldn’t help but notice the scent of coffee from afar...it’s a rather intriguing scent. I’m surprised I could smell it over the citrus, but there it was.” Henry offered the man a smile, hoping that the detective was in the process of talking with the homeowner and getting them to safety. “The, ah, supervisor told me it was a blend of your girlfriend’s?”

Jack grinned from ear to ear, without a trace of fear in his eyes, and nodded, setting the mask aside and pulling off his gloves. “Yeah, she’s a real whiz when it comes to coffee. But they won’t let her market it commercially, only locally, so she’s not doing so hot in the business.”

“That’s a shame. It has a wonderful aroma, and it sounds like she knows her coffee well. Do you give samples out to draw interest?” Henry prodded, and the man shook his head.

“Nah, she’d hate for me to do that. Says it taints what she wants to do with the business, even if they won’t let her sell to a more ranged customer base.” Jack’s pupils dilated, and Henry’s breath caught into a false cough; the man was lying to him. “She lets me help sometimes, with the blends. Says the citrus makes my senses sharper or something like that.”

Chuckling, Henry kept the man distracted while the detective made her rounds, talking coffee beans and the processing behind them. He even gleaned a few things about the man who had engineered the disease--he’d dropped out of the biochemistry industry in order to support his girlfriend when she became ill after a trip overseas, and had helped her build her business from the ground up, supporting her passion. It was tragic, really, that he thought he had to go through the lengths of killing people in order to provide a cure.

Jack had sensed danger before Jo had gotten to him, and he’d started to run, only to run straight into oncoming traffic. He was hurt, but he’d survive, though Henry was honestly surprised that the cab that hit him had survived at all. They seemed rather flimsy in comparison to what he had seen over the years, and as he watched the ambulance pull away, Jack’s arm cuffed to the handrails, he sighed, Jo sauntering up next to him. Her hands were in her pockets, watching the ambulance round the corner and out of sight.

“You know, people do crazy things for the people they love.” Melancholy filled her voice, and Henry agreed quietly, motioning her to the car. “Are you ready to head back so soon? We’ve got reports to file and the like, make sure that our investor is okay…”

“I think I am ready to go home, Detective. Today has hit a little closer to home than I’d like.” Henry’s voice was bittersweet, even to his own ears, and he could sense Jo’s curiousness settling in. “I unfortunately understand his position more than I’d like to...I had a close friend, a long time ago, who had an incurable disease. He lost everything because of it, even his license to practice medicine, which he loved more than anything in the world.”

“Not creepy at all, Morgan…”

“Let me finish, Detective.” He froze, looking out over the buildings that made up New York’s inner city, the lush greenery that had diminished in size as the populace had grown. “I did everything I could to help him fix it. And when he failed, there was nothing to be done but wait for time to take its toll. He thought it profound, to condense his life into several short years with no sight of a cure on the horizon.”

A breeze blew in, and a memory passed through Henry’s mind, taking him back to 1906 as he pushed James across sprawling greens near the hospital, a walk along the waterfront that surrounded the island. They’d been talking, with Henry still desperate to find a cure for James, and James deteriorating slowly. Time had been running out for the both of them, and Henry still hadn’t accepted it.

__“You have to live with what you’ve got, Henry. It’s what makes us human--we’re the only creatures who worry about death and dying.”_ _

“Human beings are the only creatures who worry about death, about illness. It’s what makes us human. And Jack just wanted to cure our poor barista of something that has plagued her ever since she learned of the disease...it can be soul-crushing, but she took extra steps to make sure nothing came in contact with her, and that she didn’t spread the disease. You can do everything completely right but sometimes the people who love you can really...muck it up for you.”

He’d certainly mucked it up for James, at least a few times, before he figured it out for himself: since death was not an option for him, Henry feared it for other reasons. Namely living forever and remembering people who could be just a small mark on the pages of history when they were so important to him.

“Enough about reminiscing, though. I say that we tell our unfortunate barista that she’s going to need to clean her equipment thoroughly and have her coffee independently tested for contaminants.” His fingers slid against the edge of the car door with ease, and Jo slipped into the driver’s seat, turning them towards a future where Henry hoped life would come with ease, and he could finally rest in peace with the people that time had forgotten. 


End file.
